Ramblings of Unrequited Love
by Dark Fairy of the Wood
Summary: It's not really a story, just monologues of our favourite carachters, concerning *love*!!! Sounds cheesy, but I assure you, it's not! DM/HP, RW/DM, and now, GW/TR... a different view on CoS!!! Warning: slash, swearing...
1. Ron

A/N: Just thought I would a do a no-plot, angst-filled ficlet. Basically, we have the inner ramblings of our favourite characters, all concerning unrequited love (hence the title). If you want to use any of this for your own fic (you know, those feared monologues) just ask and give me credit!  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I am nothing, Rowling is The Everything, don't sue. The sonnet is Shakespeare's LXXXVIII and Draco's quote is from Rhysenn's "Irresistible poison".  
  
Warning: definitely angst, adult issues and slash. If you don't like it, don't read it.  
  
Pairings: It's *unrequited* love, people, there are no actual pairings!  
  
Chapter 1: Ron (although it could be Harry or Draco in the first paragraphs)  
  
I hate myself. Every time I see him, every time he talks to me, every time I must confess to myself that I'm in love with him, I hate myself.  
  
But could it be any other way? It's not supposed to be, I'm not supposed to fall for him, however wonderful, handsome, beautiful, intelligent, famous he is. It's not because he's a boy, no, I've already gotten past that. Half the boys at Hogwarts, and all the girls, are head-over-heels for him, and it's really no wonder. No, it's not that.  
  
It's everything else. It's the generations of hate that stand between us, the families fighting on different sides, the opposite houses... Who am I kidding? It's not that either.  
  
The fact is that he hates me. I know, I'm lying to myself again; it's a game I've gotten very good at since that time I caught myself staring at him in the Great Hall. He doesn't hate me, and I wish he would. Masochistic? No, on the contrary. It would be a thousand times better to be hated that to be in the limbo I'm now. There's just one step from hate to love, but who would travel the winding road from contempt to love?  
  
Every time he turns to us, amongst the hatred I see he holds for Harry, I look in vain for a spark of anything, of anything towards me. But there's nothing, I'm just a way to get at my best friend. None of the scathing insults, none of the snide remarks, none of the well-aimed hexes, none of that is for me. He sees me (if he sees me at all) as an appendix of The Boy Who Lived, another stupid Gryffindor that dares taint the air he breathes. No, he doesn't hate me.  
  
But I do, in his place. As I replace his hand on me on those lonely nights, so I replace his hate on me all the time. How did that poem say, the one Hermione made me read from a Muggle author? Here it is, I copied it out in green and silver ink, and it's always under my pillow.  
  
"Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,/ and I will comment upon that offence:/ Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;/ Against thy reasons making no defence. /Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill/ To set a form upon desired change,/ As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,/ I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange/ Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue/ Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell;/ Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,/ and haply of our old acquaintance tell./ For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,/ For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate."  
  
It's beautiful. It's painful. And it's not altogether true. I have no "old acquaintance" to tell, and I certainly have no-one to tell it to. Besides, he makes my work much easier. I don't need to think about my defects or invent creative insults, because he does that for me. With one glance of his slate-grey eyes, the only glance he has ever spent on me, he saw right through me, right through the façade I've put for Harry and Hermione and that neither of them has bothered to tear it away or even acknowledge it's there. Ron, the faithful friend, the trusty sidekick, the one that's always there to receive a pat on the back after the others have stolen the limelight. That's what they see, what they want to see, and for them there's certainly no need to probe further.  
  
But Draco has. With a glance he saw right through me, and he has been exploiting it ever since that day, back in the Hogwarts Express, when nothing had been said or done, when I had just met Harry and Draco. He gave a look at me and knew how he could hurt me, to make someone else suffer. Without passion, without remorse, without even wanting to. And Harry flared up, and took offence at what was said of me, and Draco got what he wanted: hurting Harry. That's all I am for him. Even Hermione, with her Mudbloodness and good grades, gets a bit more of attention that I do. But, as Draco himself once said, in occasion of a Quidditch discussion: "But then again, the sidelines are where you belong, anyway." He does know how to hurt me.  
  
Harry and Hermione, and even Ginny and the rest of my family, show their concern, and fuss over me, but what can I tell them? "Sure, guys, what's wrong with me is the fact that I'm pining for the boy I'm meant to hate, for the boy who has tried to ruin our lives, for the boy who hates my family, for the boy who is a supporter of You-Know-Who". Harry would surely try to kill me, but would be outrun by my mother; my father would have had a heart attack as soon as I'd said the word "boy", and Ginny would be crying her eyes out. Hermione would run to the library to look for a book about Love Potions, and Fred and George would be force-feeding me TongueToffee. Percy would surely denounce me to the Ministry, Charlie would throw me to his dragons and Bill would lock me inside a pyramid. No, I can't tell anyone.  
  
Love isn't blind, it's colour-blind. It doesn't see the difference between Dark and Light. I don't see it that well either, not since seeing Draco. And I know I'm withering away, I know I'm not eating properly, I know I can't sleep, I know I'm not paying attention in class, but I don't care. And I'll pretend to hate him, I'll still blush and pale every time I see him and attribute it to hatred, I'll follow him with an intense stare, hoping one day he'll turn round and notices I exist.  
  
And it's killing me, this love is killing me. But it's the only thing I've got, it's the only place where I can beat him, even if only I know about it. Because he may be better-looking, he may be richer, he may be smarter, he may be better at Quidditch, but I'm better at this. Love, obsession, however you want to call it, I'm better at it. And maybe some he'll notice, maybe he'll give me a second look and see all that I don't dare tell him. I'll wait, there's nothing else I can do. I'll wait.  
  
------------------------- A/N: I know, sickeningly sweet at times, angsty at others. Incoherent? Of course, have you ever had coherent thoughts? Yes? Is it only me, then? Damn! Anyway, REVIEW to tell me if you liked it or didn't like it! Also, if you've got a... let's call it "pairing", to suggest, leave it in a review and I'll try to do it. Thanks! 


	2. Draco

A/N: I'm back again. This time is Draco, Slytherin's excuse for existing (only joking, I'm a Slytherin at heart), who is spilling his heart's secrets ("choose me, choose me!" screams the authoress). Anyway, I know this "pairing" (I don't know what else to call it) is drastically overused, but I still love it. Sorry, I really don't think that under any strange circumstances I could write a R/D story (*shudders*). I can just say "Ew".  
  
Disclaimer: I've said it before, I'll say it again, I. OWN. NOTHING.  
  
Warning: slash, adult issues, much angst, swearing as well (Ron doesn't swear because he's a goody-goody Gryffindor).  
  
Chapter 2: Draco.  
  
I hate Harry Potter. The Boy Who Fucking Lived, The Saviour of the Bloody Wizarding World, The Seeker of this Cursed Century, The Boy Draco Malfoy Is Obsessed With. I hate him.  
  
I do. The fact that I spend hours thinking of him, minutes staring at him during meals or in lessons, the fact that I know everything that can be known about him, the fact that he's my only topic of conversation nowadays, the fact that I jerk off dreaming about him, the fact that every time he looks at me with those emerald eyes I just want to die, the fact that he's made me doubt which side to choose (only doubt, mark that), the fact that he's the only thing I want to think about, those things only go to show how much I hate him.  
  
Oh, well, I tried. I've tried lying to myself. After all, I've lied to the world with astonishing results, lying to myself shouldn't be that much harder. It is. That fucking voice inside my head has to blurt the most inappropriate comments all the time and I can only listen to it. Not even Snape could brew a potion to stop your conscience from talking. So I grit my teeth and listen as fucking violins serenade me every time Potter smiles. Lutes and flutes every time he laughs, and a bloody harp when his eyes sparkle. I've got a fucking orchestra inside my head, playing all the fucking time. No wonder the Mudblood beats me at most lessons.  
  
The worst bit (make that second worst) is that I can absolutely nothing to stop it. I'm a Malfoy, for Merlin's beard, I shouldn't be going through this. Malfoys have no hearts, and if they do, they have it so well hidden in their Gringotts vault that it's all the same. I don't by which strange twist of Fate, *I*, of all people, ended up, not only with a fully- functional heart, but also with Harry Potter lodged in it. I should be in St Mungo's, I should be dead, I should be locked in a dungeon, I should be under a Memory Charm to make me forget those wonderful eyes, the rosy lips, the messy black hair... Stop it, conscience, you're killing me!  
  
Finally, I've got someone to blame: my unconscious. It's all its fault, actually. I didn't want any of this happening, so it's not *my* fault. That is probably the only truthful thing I've said to myself for a long time. I don't want to be in love with Harry Potter, that is my only excuse. Not that my father or Voldemort are going to make much of it. That's the reason why I've been training in repelling the Imperius Curse, and why I bothered to dig up a musty volume from the Forbidden Section of the library, because it happens to hold the only known antidote for Veritaserum. They will have to do a bloody good effort to get my secret out. They will probably resort to torture in the end, and I can't think of anything to do against that. That's the third worst bit.  
  
The worst bit? No, I would much rather not think about that. I would much rather not think about it, because I know that *that* thought always comes with self-pity, and anger, and jealousy, and envy and a variety of feelings that no Malfoy should ever feel. Malfoys don't feel. I must be adopted then. Fine, seeing as there's no way to send that thought back to the darkest recesses of my mind, where it belongs, I'll scream it inside my head.  
  
HARRY POTTER WILL NEVER LOVE ME BACK!  
  
There you go, I've said it. I thought it, more like. It doesn't make any fucking difference, I don't feel any better, if anything, I feel more wretched than before. Even Pansy has noticed that there's something wrong with me. It must be very clear, because that stupid bitch doesn't notice anything that is not hitting her on the head with its obviousness. I wonder if Potter has noticed something as well. He sometimes gives me a weird, inquisitive look when we're in the middle of those verbal-battles that make me feel so much better, almost normal in fact. Those looks unnerve me, of course, as do all others that come from his despairingly bright eyes. I wonder if he has noticed something.  
  
He's the only one here that could notice (besides Uncle Severus, but he won't say anything). The Mudblood has her bushy head so buried in a book that she'll notice less than Pansy, and that's saying a lot. The Weasel girl won't notice anything non-Pottery and the Weasel won't notice anything. Period. About my family I've already taken the aforementioned measures. But what can I do about Potter? I think that I'm so far gone that, if he asked me, I would tell him the truth. And then take the path of noble suicide, obviously.  
  
Sometimes I imagine what would happen if I told him. I dream that he would look at me, and I would get lost in the jungle of his eyes and he would say "I love you too, Draco". Here're the fucking violins again. Or maybe he would look at me and blush violently and I would force him to look at me (feeling his soft skin under my hands) and he would kiss me (scorching, refreshing lips, tongue that darts out to play with mine) and... That's when I have to put a Silencing Spell around my bed. Or maybe, and this is a bloody sight more likely, he would look at me, his eyes filled with hatred and scorn, and walk away, thinking it's some kind of prank. Or maybe, because I feel there's something Slytherny in him, he would take advantage of this to make fun of me. I would be lost anyway, whichever way life went after I said those fateful words, I would be lost.  
  
That's why I keep silent. That's why I turn my eyes away when he looks at me. That's why I could never be his friend, or his associate, or his ally. That's why I keep on the opposing side of the war. Because I could never bring myself to say what I feel those green eyes are asking me. I'll never answer. I can't.  
  
-------------------- A/N: So, did I get Draco right? Would you want Harry to go for Draco or shall my twisted imagination come up with someone else? (*grins evilly*). Who do you want to appear here? Review! 


	3. Ginny

A/N: well, this is the third instalment of my "Unrequited love" series... I know it's been ages since I updated last, but I've been really busy with exams, papers and other fics. sorry about that! Also, I must refuse once again to the thought of doing a Draco/Ron story; I frankly don't like the pairing... I mean, having Ron angsting after Draco is all right, but Draco and Ron, *together*??? No, thanks.(my apologies to all the D/R shippers out there).  
  
This is my longest piece yet, because I love this pairing so much, and think it has so much potential... I don't know who is going to be next here, although I have some ideas for a sad Cho/Cedric. Have *you* got any suggestions (not D/R, thank you very much)?  
  
Disclaimer: you know, as well as I do, that I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters and that I'm not making any profit out of this at all (unless you count as a profit the tingly feeling I get when I read your reviews!!!), so don't sue me...  
  
Warning: well, once again, I'll warn you for adult issues, angst and some child-molestation (I don't now if it can be called that when it's consented, but anyway...)  
  
Chapter 3: Ginny  
  
Here I am, writing on my diary again. This black, leather-bound book that, no matter what I do, will never be able to replace the one I owned during my first year of school, the one that taught me all I know about life.  
  
I can never thank Lucius Malfoy enough. My father would probably have a heart attack if he ever read this, and not only my father, but possibly every single person that has ever had the opportunity of talking to Ginny Weasley. But it's true; even if Malfoy only did it in as a part of a highly unsettling scheme to gain power and recognition, and sink our family into disgrace, all in one clean blow, the moment he slipped that diary into my battered schoolbooks he gained my unwavering gratitude, for life.  
  
Because the few months I spent writing in my diary, and having it write back, those were the days that made me who I am. All that happened before, and all that has happened afterwards, is just a pale shadow in my memory, compared to the vibrant colours that *his* words gave to my dreary life. Mommy's little helper, my brothers' teasing practice, my father's doll in his free week-ends, Hermione's tag-along and Harry's admirer once in Hogwarts... that was what I was before meeting Tom. And afterwards? I am just an empty shell, a walking corpse, an automaton who tells everybody she's all right, while she's dying inside.  
  
But when he spoke to me, when he listened to my worries and soothed my pains, when he reassured me and dissipated my fears, when he was there for me, like no one else has... I was alive then, I was full of life and love and joy.  
  
At first he was a friend. He was the one I talked to about Harry, and how he never paid me any mind, about how Forge and Percy and Ron teased me, about how Mother asked too much of me, about how Hermione annoyed me and Neville insisted on walking me to class. He was the one who convinced me that there were no monsters under my bed, he was the one that told me that red-hair was pretty, he was the one who dried my tears when Harry ignored me and the one who shared my excitement when Harry talked to me. He was the one who supported me through the first days of school, through the fear of getting sorted into Hufflepuff, through the Hell of Snape's lessons and through the endless boredom of History of Magic.  
  
And then, the feelings started growing. I felt anxious when I was away from him, when I couldn't hold the leather-bound book to my heart, when I couldn't read his tidy scribble telling me everything was fine. At first I didn't want to tell him, because I feared he would react like Harry, with his green eyes full of pity and embarrassment when he looked at me, but I was too used at confiding in him to hold anything back. I decided to tell him. And then, that night, while I wrote under my blankets, he told me he loved me.  
  
He told me he loved me, before I had the chance to say anything. He told me that he had noticed that I didn't talk about Harry so often and that he wanted to take that as a sign that my infatuation with The Boy Who Lived was over. He wanted that? I asked, and he wrote that he did want it, that he hoped for it, because he had always thought that my infatuation with Harry was doing me more harm than good, and because... Because what? I asked, and he took a long time to answer, but when he finally did, it was with a drawing of my face as I slept, surrounded by a heart.  
  
No one has any idea of what that meant to me, no one ever will. It was the first time that someone loved me for who I was, for being Ginny, and not because it was expected... it took me a long time before I could answer him, and I won't repeat what I told him, but from that day, and forever afterwards, I gave him my heart.  
  
At first we were content with writing to each other, talking about our feelings, about our happiness, but discontent began to grow. 'I want to hold you close, my little one, I want to play with your hair and hold you hand' he wrote to me quickly, making little sketches of us together, and I wanted it too, more than anything. Finally he told me there was a way he could recover his body, and be with me forever. Do you think I hesitated even for a moment? I killed roosters, I painted signals on the walls, I descended to the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed the basilisk without the shadow of a doubt. I was born to be his, and I would do anything it took to make it a reality.  
  
I followed his orders faithfully, even when it meant having to go without him for a few weeks, leaving him with Harry until Tom could do his part. That was when he began to fill my dreams, talking to me while I was asleep, making me *feel* all I would feel for real when he was back to life. I stole the diary back as soon as Harry had seen what he had to see, I couldn't go without it any longer, it had become an addiction I had no intention of resisting. They took Hagrid away, and I couldn't spare a tear; he was dispensable, Tom told me so, and it was part of the plan. The same applied when Hermione and Penelope had been petrified; they had been kind to me, in their own mean way, but if they stood between me and Tom, they didn't have a chance.  
  
The plan was reaching completion, and I prepared myself for what was to come. He had asked me to decide between Harry and him, and I had answered him before he finished his question; Harry had to die, then so be it, the boy who had never spared me a glance, who seemed embarrassed by my childish admiration, the boy who made Tom so jealous he had chosen him to be the sacrificial victim needed to raise him back. I painted my own good-bye, and descended into the Chamber as I had done so many times, fearless, proud and hopeful.  
  
And then Harry had to go and spoil it all, like he always did. It was lucky that Tom had me under a Bonding Spell at the time, or I would have thrown myself at Harry when he plucked that fang and stabbed my heart with it.  
  
The thing that hurts me the most is the way that, even as he was being defeated, Tom remembered me, and put my safety before his. How he lied about my involvement in everything, how he blamed a spell for what had been my conscious decision, how, as he was fading, he crawled inside my head and begged me to stick with his story, to save myself now that he was lost. I did, for his sake, because mine didn't matter anymore.  
  
I have stuck with his story until now. I have lied to my mother, to my father, to my so-called-friends. I lied to Dumbledore and I lied to Harry. I lied to the counsellor and I lied to doctors. But I can't lie to myself, I can't hide from the fact that I'm still waiting to see if he comes back, to see if he brings back my heart, that he took away with him that night.  
  
I will wait. I will continue to live my false life, my make-believe, my pretty play-pretend, and I'll be waiting, because I know that one day he will come back for me. He promised. He is Slytherin's Heir, after all, and snakes always keep their word.  
  
-------------- A/N: I liked it, I don't know about you. If you think that the last sentence was a bit weird (since when have Slytherins been considered trustworthy?), I took it from Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "Little Prince" and how his snake did keep its word.  
  
Now, review!!! 


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